Mr. Moore headed for the screen door. “It could’ve been worse,” he said as he entered the house, in an embarrassed way what led me to believe that it couldn’t have been very much worse.
Still, expensive as it might’ve been, the news that them what were paying the most attention to the case-the heavy gamblers-didn’t think our cause had been hurt by Mr. Darrow’s antics of the afternoon was encouraging, and we were all able to sleep a little sounder, I think, because of it. Lucius was the last to turn in: he was due on the stand to talk about the circumstantial case against Libby Hatch the next morning, and he wanted to make sure he had all his ducks in a row before he let himself drift off. He was up early, too, and when I came downstairs I found him neatly dressed and pacing around the backyard, mumbling to himself and already sweating. Always cool as ice when it came to the business of investigation and scientific testing, he (much like my self) hated any kind of direct attention from crowds of strangers, and I think we all would’ve felt a little better if his much more diplomatic brother had been the one who was going to handle the testimony. But putting Marcus on the stand would’ve given Mr. Darrow the chance to hint, if not flat-out declare, that he’d been personally scouted by the prosecution prior to the trial, a fact that, while it certainly didn’t amount to anything illegal, might’ve been represented in a way what would’ve made us look desperate.
And so it was Lucius who, at just past ten, took the oath and sat in the witness chair, ready to reveal all the details about Daniel Hatch’s gun that he and his brother had put together during our stay in Ballston Spa. The courtroom had a different feel to it, now, one brought on by the new faces what were visible behind the defense table: Dr. William Alanson White, a young, short man with spectacles; Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, looking her best; and finally a peculiar-looking mug what tried to make up for his unimpressive size by puffing himself up like a rooster: “Dr.” Albert Hamilton, the well-known ballistics “expert.” Dr. White and Mrs. Cady Stanton only offered the most formal of greetings to those members of our party they knew, making it clear from the outset that they didn’t agree with what we were up to; and I don’t think the strained nature of the situation did anything to help Lucius’s nerves. Still, he held himself together very admirably, sitting and waiting to be questioned like he did it every day of his life.
In fact, during Mr. Picton’s questioning the detective sergeant came off something like impressive: he didn’t leave out any details, didn’t hesitate in his answers, and didn’t even sweat, or, at least, not much more than anyone else on that warm, humid August morning. In a funny kind of way I was proud of him, being as I knew how much he hated the position he’d been forced into; it wasn’t until the very end of his testimony that things started to get a little bumpy.
“Just a few more details, Detective Sergeant,” Mr. Picton said. “You’ve told us approximately when the revolver was last fired, how many shots were expended, how just two bullets could have been responsible for the wounds inflicted on the three children, and how closely the bullet removed from the Hatches’ wagon matches the barrel of Daniel Hatch’s gun. But was there anything you came across during your inspection of the weapon that might lead you to hazard a guess as to who fired it last?”
“Yes, there was,” Lucius answered quickly.
“And what was that?”
“We performed a dactyloscopy test. We compared the results to samples taken from household objects that belonged to the defendant. The match was perfect.”
Once again, Mr. Darrow was out of his chair like a shot. “I object to this line of questioning, Your Honor,” he said. “The state is attempting to enter evidence of a type that has never been accepted in an American court of law, and I’m sure they know it.”
“Quite right,” judge Brown replied, turning what was becoming his usual critical glance to Mr. Picton. “Unless the assistant district attorney is in possession of some new scientific data that establish fingerprinting-which, for the benefit of the jury, is what he’s talking about-as absolutely reliable, or unless he can provide me with a precedent for its being allowed in an American court, I cannot permit this testimony to continue.”
“Your Honor need not allow it to continue,” Mr. Picton said. “In fact, the state does not wish to continue. We acknowledge that fingerprinting is not yet accepted in American courts of law, despite the fact that it has been effectively used as evidence in courtrooms in Argentina-”
“Mr. Picton,” the judge warned, leveling his gavel.
“-and despite the fact, as well, that the British government in India has ordered its use throughout that colony by police and prosecutors-”
“Mr. Picton, enough!” the judge yelled, banging the gavel.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Picton said, putting his innocent look on again. “I beg the court’s pardon, yet I feel I am misunderstood. I only mention these rather interesting and, to some ways of thinking, important facts. I do not say that the jury should give any weight to them, simply because Argentines, Indians, and Englishmen do. After all, this is America, and things take time to be accepted, here. I do not offer these tests as evidence-I offer them simply as a rather remarkable coincidence that may interest the jury.” Sitting down very quickly, Mr. Picton added, “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
By now Judge Brown was rubbing hard at the leathery, wrinkled skin of his face with both hands. “Mr. Picton,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control, “if I have ever heard such bald sophistry in a courtroom before, I cannot recollect it. You know perfectly well that anything offered by a witness in testimony must be considered evidence, or it is improper! I ought to hold you in contempt, sir-and if you try that kind of semantic trickery again, I will hold you in contempt! You are here to present acceptable evidence, not remark on interesting, unproven theories!” Turning to the jury box, the judge bellowed, “The jury will disregard everything that was just said, and it will be stricken from the record!” Then it was Lucius’s turn: the judge spun on him and hollered, “And if you mention the subject of fingerprinting again, Detective Sergeant, I’ll hold you in contempt, too!”
Lucius’s forehead began to glow bright under the heat of those words. “Yes, sir,” he said sheepishly.
Hissing in exasperation, Judge Brown turned to the defense table. “All right, Mr. Darrow, the witness is yours! And since I’m in a warning mood, let me tell you, sir-I don’t want to see any hysterical theatrics of the variety that I witnessed yesterday! This trial is going to be run in an orthodox manner from here on out, and if either side crosses the line again I’m going to lock everybody up!” Mr. Darrow couldn’t hide a smile, at that; and the judge pointed straight at his head with the gavel when he saw it. “Don’t make the mistake of taking this lightly, Mr. Darrow, or you’ll find yourself on a train back to Chicago, smarting like a whipped cur!”
Mr. Darrow wiped the smile from his face as he came out from behind his table. “Yes, Your Honor. I do apologize-you’ve been extremely patient.”
“You’re damned right I have!” the judge said, causing the galleries to ripple with laughter. At the sound the judge got to his feet and banged his gavel like a madman. “And that goes for the rest of you, too!” As quiet returned, the judge began to calm down; but only when the room was absolutely still did he sit, mumbling something about “all my forty years on the bench.” Then he pointed at Mr. Darrow again with the gavel. “Well? Get a move on, Counselor, I don’t want to die before this trial is over!”